


we'll never be loved right

by smallredboy



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Arguing, Dreams, Eavesdropping, Hinted at internalized homophobia, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, One Night Stands, Pining, Season/Series 02, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 10:22:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18467002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/smallredboy
Summary: "Just for tonight" and an assortment of other lies.





	we'll never be loved right

**Author's Note:**

> for the 'unrequited love/pining' square in my trope bingo card, and the 'secrets and lies' square in my gen prompt bingo card.
> 
> title from [_a name for illness i knew, but couldn't say_](http://www.versedaily.org/2019/anameforillness.shtml) by chelsea dingman.
> 
> enjoy :3!

House knows there will be some semblance of guilt as soon as the night passes, but he ignores it. He focuses on Wilson being next to him, too next to him, a few drinks on him. Not enough for him to be anything more than just a bit drunk— he’s still lucid and he’s still going through with this.

Wilson doesn’t even pull off his shirt, just pulls his pants and boxers down as House does the same. It’s been two nights ever since he got there, saying Julie was cheating on him. They haven’t even started the divorce, Wilson hasn’t called a lawyer— but he’s still under House’s roof, and House is still drunk, and Wilson’s still tipsy, and they’re still going through with this.

“Wilson—” he breathes, hips stuttering up into his hand, soft moans leaving his mouth.

Wilson keeps his head by House’s shoulder as he gets him off and as House returns the favor. There’s something unlike them in all of this, and House is sure this is a one-night thing. It can’t be anything more than that — the guilt must be consuming Wilson whole right now, even with his tipsiness, even as they’re still going through with this.

“House,” Wilson pants out, his eyes screwed shut, beads of sweat trickling down his forehead. His whimpers, the way he bucks up into House’s fist— god, he wants more. He wants so much more than this, just what they have right now. What they’ll have for maybe only tonight. The idea of it lasting any longer is ridiculous and unlikely.

“House,” Wilson breathes again and again, like a prayer, a mantra. He looks oh so beautiful right now, House notes; brows furrowed together, eyes shut, his mouth open in a silent moan of pleasure. He’s perfect, and god, he doesn’t understand how Julie could’ve done that, of all things, to end their marriage.

“Wilson,” he says. He’s tempted to pull him into a kiss, messy and hungry and full of raw lust, but the thought isn’t all too welcome. Maybe Wilson would freak out at the mere concept.

“Fuck,” he whimpers out, his breathing more erratic, his hips bucking up more often,  “House, I’m go-gonna—”

“Go for it,” House breathe out, short breaths coming out of his mouth, sweat trickling down and pooling into his back. He wants nothing more than to kiss Wilson, but he represses it. He ignores the urge.

And he does, and Wilson comes. House follows suit, breathing hard and leaning into Wilson.

“That was just for tonight,” House says, and Wilson gives him a small, wary look he isn’t quite sure how to interpret. 

“I’d guess so,” he says. “I’m going to sleep now.”

House stands up and clutches his thigh before handing Wilson some tissues. He gives him a curt, grateful nod and cleans up his hand; House does the same before limping up back to his room. They went through with it. They jerked each other off.

He draws in a shaky breath and plops down into bed, closes his eyes. Fuck.

 

* * *

 

It's a normal day at Princeton-Plainsboro, and last night House and Wilson had sex. There's nothing offbeat or wrong apart from that; Chase is still a kiss-ass, Cameron is still a mess, Foreman is still ready to argue with House at any and every DDX. 

Their dynamic changes in imperceptible ways to the untrained eye. Most people don't keep a close look on House and Wilson's friendship of sorts, don't analyze every different movement of theirs at every waking hour. But there is someone who does, and that's House himself. 

“I didn't expect to have a gay couple as my doctors,” a patient drawls. She's got a thick Southern accent, baby blue eyes, and blonde hair, and she's probably got stomach cancer. He called up Wilson to check on the hints. 

House rolls his eyes. “Wilson’s not your doctor, I'm just consulting him.”

As he makes a snarky remark, he can't help but notice the way Wilson tenses up and clenches a fist, his face going a little pale. He's tempted to scoff at that, but Wilson maybe is still living through his gay denial. 

“— _And_ we're not together,” he adds as a last minute thought. The patient doesn't seem very convinced by the affirmation, but still, they try and move on from the topic. 

Rather, Wilson tries to move on from the topic. 

“We'll do a test to confirm our suspicions,” Wilson tells her, squeezing her shoulder comfortingly before turning and leaving to gather Chase and Cameron for a biopsy.

As soon as they're off to get the sample, House has his free hand against the wall, looking at Wilson questioningly. 

“You didn't tell me you still had gay guilt to work through,” House says, a bit accusingly. 

Wilson scoffs. “What makes you think I have gay guilt?”

“You looked like you almost went into a panic when this girl said we're gay!”

Wilson argues back, “Because we're not a couple! Of course her saying it with such confidence made me uncomfortable!”

House nearly tenses up when he says they're not a couple, but he keeps a hold on himself, doesn't say anything. He scoffs and leans into the wall. 

“Well, considering we did fuck,” he starts, “maybe you should start getting used to it. Some straight people have got a striking gaydar.”

Wilson doesn't even dignify that with a response. He scowls and leaves, and House watches after him, squinting a little. It's no big deal, really— just two best friends having sex this one time. It's not like it'll happen again. 

It's not like Wilson's discomfort will last, either. He's stupidly good at getting used to things. People feeling and noticing the fact they've slept together, now he'll get used to that at some point. 

House hums and heads for the laboratory, Chase finishing up the biopsy results. 

“It's not stomach cancer,” he says. 

“Hm,” he says, nodding. “Guess it's back to square one.”

There's a strange relief at knowing he won't have to consult Wilson in this case. 

* * *

It wasn't that one time, as much as House had convinced himself it'd be.

Wilson comes over to his place long after he's moved out and found himself a new apartment that's wife-less, the divorce going through with shaky steps. But he's still there, going to check on his best friend.

House has taken a bit too much Vicodin and he's pleasantly high-- he straightens up when Wilson enters with the spare key he'd given him. Usually, Wilson knocks, so that's a bit of a change. He supposes there's no privacy to be had now that they've had sex. 

"House," he starts.

He looks up. "Uh-huh?"

"You're high, aren't you?"

"I always am."

"More than usual?"

"Mhm," he agrees, flopping back down on his couch. "If you aren't gonna sleep with me again, 'm not interested in whatever sermon you've got prepared."

Wilson's eyes widen and he sputters, unsure of what to say, staring at House in disbelief. "You said it was just for that one night—!"

House yawns and stretches a little, his hands over his head. "Everybody lies."

Wilson seems to doubt, which House can blame on a thousand things. His lingering gay guilt, the fact he's been divorced for barely three or four days now, the fact he's maybe slept with men times that were all far and between. Times he could count with one hand, perhaps.

"Cmon," House insists anyway, "either leave or come hit this."

Wilson draws in a breath and walks up to House, pinning him down to the couch and starting to press kisses down his neck, unbuttoning his shirt, never making any contact between House's face and his lips. Utterly impersonal. House still eats it up, though, tilting his head back and humming contently.

"This is the last time I'm indulging you," Wilson says as he unbuttons House's jeans.

House rolls his eyes. "Everybody lies," he drawls, speech exaggerated on purpose.

Wilson grips at him through his boxers with a confidence he's never quite seen before on him, and House gasps out, hips bucking up and his eyes fluttering shut.

"Well, consider the possibility that someone might not be lying, this one time."

He spreads his legs open and closes his eyes, ignoring the mere concept of this being the last time he sleeps with Wilson. He wants it to last forever, his hips bucking up with every move of Wilson's tongue.

When he falls apart at the seams, he straightens up. He breathes hard, looking at Wilson. "Can I return the favor?"

Wilson scoffs but doesn't protest, doesn't deny him it— he just pops open the button of his pants, looking at House carefully as he sinks down on his knees. "You're sure that doesn't hurt?"

He briefly thinks it'd be impossible for his leg to hurt in this position, settled in between Wilson's legs, but he swallows that up. "It doesn't," he says, pulling down Wilson's boxers as well, closing his eyes and leaning in.

After Wilson climaxes, House stands and falls back into his couch, falling asleep in record time. Wilson looks at him as he sleeps, brows furrowed, and turns to the door, leaving without saying a single thing.

* * *

It's subconscious, but House pulls himself closer to Wilson as they talk.

They're both getting their food at the cafeteria the day after that, an unspoken agreement of it will probably happen again but I hope it doesn't. House doesn't even bring up the subject while in a room full of other people, something very un-House-like, all things considered.

The topic of the day is Wilson's ex-wife, as it is both times he's gotten divorced while knowing House well. With Bonnie, he kept picking at the subject until Wilson yelled at him and told him to drop it, Christ. He doesn't know if it'll last all that long with Julie. She's not as much of a can of worms and mess as Bonnie was.

"So Julie's already got herself another guy?" he asks as he gets his sandwich of always.

Wilson scoffs. "I just told you no, she hasn't. She was just talking with a mutual friend last time I talked to her."

"Did she even tell you who she was cheating with? It could've been him," House says as they turn and head to get a table together. He pulls himself closer to Wilson, their shoulders almost brushing together, and Wilson doesn't protest at first, humming as he gets to the table. Then he gets closer, shoulders pressed together, and Wilson pulls away.

"Why are you all up in my space?" Wilson asks, sitting down with his lunch.

House scoffs. "Like that started just now."

"Well," he says slowly, picking his words with care (the same method he uses with his patients, the same one House finds utterly stupid), "We have had a second one night stand."

"Nice oxymoron."

"Listen," he insists, clearly peeved by House's interruption, "I'm just saying it's weird and that I notice more things you do now."

"So like, gay guilt is hitting you and you're overthinking everything."

"No..." At House's disbelieving look, he draws in a breath. "Fine, yeah, it's the gay guilt."

"And the just-divorced guilt."

Wilson makes a vague noise of agreement, starting to pick at his lunch without much of a word. House starts eating his sandwich too, the silence a lot more uncomfortable than most of the time. But he brushes it off— again, Wilson will get used to it, eventually. He's kind of got to; otherwise, their friendship isn't going to work out as it is.

"You need to get over it."

Wilson rolls his eyes and looks at his food. "I know, House."

"Then get to it."

He keeps picking at his food, and the conversation ends. All House can wonder is if there's something more to it than either of them is letting on. He knows there's nothing more in his side, at least. Or so he'd like to believe; he's never been good at his own emotions.

"See you, House," he says, standing up. 

He gives him a small meaningless smile, one of those he never wears because they're pointless. Too friendly, in his opinion.

Wilson notices, though; he raises a brow, gives him a mildly confused look.

He ignores it to the best of his ability and drops the smile. The confusion in his best friend's face remains. "See you, Wilson."

* * *

"You were wearing a fake smile," Wilson says when he's got House pinned to the wall.

He raises a brow. "Sure. So, about that being the last time--"

Wilson interrupts him, "I know. I was lying." He puts his leg in between House's, making space and kissing his neck and down to his collar, starting to suck small, pink marks into it. Not high enough for anybody to see them but House and whatever hooker he hires in between their whatever-number night stands. They're at the three-night stand now, aren't they? 

"You're a terrible liar," House says, his hands on Wilson's clothed back, digging his nails into it and humming. "And, anyway, why don't you kiss me on the mouth? Got a Pretty Woman complex?"

Wilson scoffs as he works at House's pants. "You could say so." He pulls them down and off before turning and looking around for something. "You've got lube, by any chance?"

" _ Ooh _ ," he says with an enticement that's nowhere near fake, "You're gonna fuck me."

"Just your thighs, I don't have the heart to be a pain in the ass."

"Very Greek of you," House mumbles, as he's got his gay history clear in his mind— he guesses the older one will be the beloved this once. He pulls away and limps to the drawer, getting a lube bottle from it and throwing it at Wilson, who catches it without batting an eye.

"Would this be better on your bed? Standing up for sex can't be good for you."

House feels his leg throb but he tries to ignore it. He can deal with it, maybe pop a Vicodin or two. "I'll be fine, but if you insist on coddling me—” 

"I'm not coddling," he intercepts, "I'm worrying. They're different."

"With you, they're the same."

Wilson rolls his eyes. "Let's go to your bedroom."

"Of course," he mumbles, but he doesn't complain apart from that. 

He lets Wilson have his way with him, kissing his neck and down his back, keeping his hands on his thighs. He's all too careful, but House doesn't mind, eyes fluttering shut.

Eventually, Wilson climaxes into his thighs, breathing hard and gripping at House's arm, panting.

"Fuck," Wilson breathes.

"That sure is what you did," he deadpans, and before he can continue being snarky, Wilson wraps his hand around his length, starting to get him off, and he moans, eyes fluttering shut.

Wilson presses a kiss to his shoulder. "Shut up for once," he says.

House can't help but obey.

* * *

The DDX room is very much Houseless, but his team is still there, gossiping and talking about whatever that comes to their minds. Chase's cup of coffee has long gone cold because of their latest topic; their boss himself.

"Is it just me, or does House seem... weird?" Chase asks the rest of the team.

"He's always weird," Foreman says.

"I mean more than usual."

"Well," Cameron intercepts. "I haven't seen him and Wilson going around talking twenty four-seven like usual." 

"What, you think he misses Wilson?" Foreman scoffs. "They're both heads of departments, it can't be because of that."

Chase says, "House is selfish and capricious, though, so I wouldn't put it past him to get pissed over his quote-unquote best friend being too busy with cancer kids to attend to his every whim."

"That's an okay point," Cameron nods. "Maybe he's just been taking too much Vicodin, though."

Foreman hums. "Yeah, maybe."

"It's still likely it's got to do with Wilson."

"Or with Cuddy," Foreman says.

"Foreman," Chase immediately intercepts, "haven't you noticed how House's borderline sexual harassment of his boss has just— kind of disappeared into thin air?"

There's silence for several seconds. 

"Damn," Foreman says, "It  _ has _ ."

"That's really weird," Cameron notes.

Chase hums, "It is."

"Well," she continues, "It's not like we can ask him, he'll deny it and maybe go back to his old ways. There's not much else to it."

Chase nods. "Cuddy does deserve a break from all that, anyway. Poor woman."

Cameron shrugs. "I'm sure he was just like that before she even hired him, so, y'know."

"Wait," Foreman says suddenly. "If he hasn't been doing all that with Cuddy, that leaves Wilson—”

Chase interrupts confusedly, "Yeah, we agreed on that, what's—?” 

"What if," Foreman starts, "what if he's found a new piece of meat to harass."

"Wilson?" Cameron exclaims.

"I mean," Chase says, "I don't think it's that crazy of a possibility. I wouldn't strike it out that fast, you know.."

Instead of doing something more dramatic, House throws his tennis ball to Chase's back, who yelps in surprise.

"All of you shut up," he says, "We've got a case."

"Do we?" Cameron asks, tilting her head, quite unaffected by House eavesdropping, "Or are you just deflecting?"

"I'm not gay," he says, "Now shut up, Allison. Or are you just that eager for a gay best friend? Because, may I remind you, the wombat is right there."

"I'm not gay!" Chase exclaims, blushing pink.

Foreman gives him a quizzical look, but the conversation ends, and House manages to loop it back into their newest patient, writing the symptoms on the whiteboard.

Deflecting does work, sometimes, but he shouldn't rely on it as his team gets an idea or two of what exactly is going on in between him and Wilson.

* * *

This time, they're both quite sober. Of course, neither of them would admit to that, but it's obvious. No stumbling around or stammering or stuttering, just two stupid men in denial, still making circles around one another when they're not having sex.

“You are— quite a mess,” House says as he works Wilson's pants and boxers down and off. He wraps his hand around him and strokes him to hardness, his face as neutral as possible. He turns to look up at him and Wilson is clean shaven and perfect, and he wants to kiss him. 

But he can't, so he continues the charade, the act. 

“House,” he breathes, hips bucking up, eyes fluttering shut as he lets House pull him apart at the seams. There's nothing better than this, House muses as he takes him into his mouth, eyes shut. He can concentrate on something other than his pain, other than his latest patient—

He can focus on worshipping Wilson. 

It's a deeply embarrassing thought, and it makes him want to pull off and tell Wilson to return the favor even before he’s completed said favor. But he doesn't— he swallows up the shame and embarrassment and sucks him off. 

Wilson keeps a hand on House's hair, letting him get him off. “F-fuck, House…”

House thinks about kissing Wilson. House thinks about something tender. House thinks about stargazing and being sprawled over Wilson as he rubs the small of his back and Wilson singing sweet nothings right into his ear. 

He fists his hand around himself, and he pulls Wilson apart from the seams, and he releases to the thought of Wilson telling him he loves him. 

When he comes back from the high, Wilson is still heavy in his mouth, and a shame settles deep inside his skin, makes a chill seep deep into his bones. 

But he doesn't say anything, and he keeps his eyes shut. 

Wilson doesn’t have to know what he came to. 

He pulls him apart with learned expertise, hands heavy on his thighs, eyes shut tight and his mouth wrapped around him. When he releases, he pulls away, and Wilson looks down. 

“You don't need me to return the favor, do you?” he asks. 

House hums. “No.” A pause. They're both staring at each other all too intensely. “I don't.”

Wilson nods and pulls his pants back up. 

And that's how it ends. 

House watches as Wilson becomes smaller and smaller into the distance. 

* * *

“What’s going on between you and Wilson?” Cuddy asks to deflect from House's latest idea on how to find out what's wrong with the patient.

House blinks. “Nothing,” he says. 

Cuddy looks up at him, disbelief all over her eyes. Her low cut isn’t even worth calling out anymore. 

“Well,” she starts, “Feel free to come to me when you figure out what is going between you two.”

“There's nothing—”

Cuddy sighs. “And you can't do that. Find another method.” She ushers him away with a motion of her hand. “Now go.”

House stares at her and turns to leave. 

_ Nothing _ is a good description of what's going on in between him and Wilson, overall, anyways. 

* * *

“We’re going to stop pretending this is the last time, right?” House asks as he works to get his pants and boxers off.

Wilson looks at him with caution and gets his clothes off too, pressing kisses from House’s jaw and under, until he’s peppering kisses across his stomach. There’s still no mouth-to-mouth contact, there’s still none of the messy kisses House wants so bad, the kisses he aches for. But he still keeps it quiet, he still lets Wilson coat himself up with lube and start fucking his thighs with eagerness.

He might’ve not taken enough Vicodin before calling Wilson over, but still, he deals with the throbbing pain as Wilson groans and fucks up into him, his thighs slick with lube.

“Wilson,” he breathes.

He buries his head on the crook of his neck. “House,” he breathes.

Another harsh movement, hips stuttering up, and suddenly his pain flares up and he can’t deal with it anymore. He gasps, a shrill noise that leaves him without his consent, and he softens, squeezing his eyes shut. It burns, it feels like he’s being stabbed, and his leg throbs, the missing muscle throbs so so bad—

“Wilson,” he gasps out, and he immediately stops. “I c-can’t…”   
  
“Shh,” he whispers, pulling away and letting him lay down on his back, “I’ll go get you some Vicodin.”

He closes his eyes and his knuckles whiten as he holds onto the sheets, panting and whimpering like an animal running from its hunter. He wants to rest and he wants to take some pills and get back to having Wilson fuck him— but Wilson cares too much and he would never allow that, he’d just take care of him. He’s such an idiot, such a caring bastard. It makes him a bit angry— he’s never been cared about so fiercely before.

Wilson comes back mere minutes afterward, with a glass of water and three pills. He places the pills in House’s hand and keeps the glass in his hand, offering it when House downs the pills. He takes small sips from the glass, waiting for the pain to dissipate, although he knows it's going to take a few minutes. 

“You're welcome,” Wilson says as he looks for his boxers. 

House draws in a breath. He looks up at him, and it's one of the same uncomfortable looks of always. They stare at each other for a few long seconds, and then House says, “Thank you.”

Wilson stares, bewildered, and swallows. House takes another sip from the glass of water. 

Wilson goes on and puts back on his boxers and his pants, throwing House's towards their owner. He puts them back on too, as much as his leg protests. 

“Could you repeat that for me?” Wilson asks, and there's no teasing edge to his voice. 

“Sorry for spoiling our night,” he says as if an apology is any less vulnerable than a thank you. Wilson looks at him and blinks owlishly before something washes over him. 

House takes a few seconds to recognize it, but it's Wilson _realizing_. 

Wilson turns and pockets his phone. “I'll see you tomorrow. Don't do anything stupid. Unless you want me to stay?”

House's voice is stupidly small, “You can go.”

And Wilson goes. 

* * *

“Morning,” Wilson tells him, pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek as he straightens up and heads for the bathroom.

House grumbles and rolls around on the bed, wrapping himself on the blankets as much as possible. He already wants Wilson to come back and snuggle up with him again. He’s been touch-starved for ages, and now there’s someone eager to touch him. It’s a dream come true, especially considering the person eager to touch him is none other than James Evan Wilson.

The water runs and he keeps squirming around the bed, trying to gain some semblance of rest without Wilson's arms wrapped tight around him. He's always impossibly warm, so easy to just be held and to be vulnerable around him, even when a part of him wants him to very much not to do that. 

Being vulnerable is terrifying and awful and frightening most of the time. But Wilson can read him like an open book. 

Wilson comes back eventually, in his sweats and his big sleep shirt. He's still rubbing sleep off his eyes, his hair a mess as he gets into bed and curls up next to House. 

He wraps his arms around him, holds him close. House hums happily and turns to bury his face in the crook of Wilson's neck. He hasn't put cologne on, and it only makes him hold onto him tighter. He wants to be at Wilson's side and never let go. He doesn't want to let go. 

“You're an amazing boyfriend,” House mumbles into his neck. 

Wilson chuckles and messes with House's hair, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. 

“You're quite amazing yourself,” he says. 

House wakes up in the same bed of always, one side cold, like always. It's been about a week ever since their last lie of ‘just for tonight’, and he wouldn't mind if he didn't recall the events of his dream. He's a little nauseous. 

He stands up with a shaky step and downs two Vicodin before heading to the bathroom, turning the lights on and watching his reflection. He's still alone, and Wilson still isn't there. The yearning for it to be more than it is— he's never experienced such a thing so strongly before. All he wants to do is grab Wilson in public and kiss him hungrily and messily. 

He doesn't want to let go and keep going, he doesn't want to indulge his fantasies for long either. He wants to stay in this stand-still for however long the world will let him. 

But the feeling of disgust with himself comes flooding back— the notion that he'll never quite get what he desires. What he yearns for with all his heart. 

He turns the lights off and goes back to his bedroom, resisting the urge to go grab some whiskey or some scotch from his liquor cabinet. He resigns to laying back down on his bed, knowing it'll be empty and cold and missing something or someone for the foreseeable future. 

* * *

House is bored and too sober for his own liking, but sometimes there are some things (or some people) who are better than drinking or getting high. So he settles for that one person, knowing he'll pick up the phone and getting to his place, taking him apart at the seams. He knows it won't be hard, he knows Wilson will come to him like he always does. And he knows Wilson will make sure to make a mess of him, leave him too destroyed to even think about the incessant pain in his leg.

Their arrangement is simple and the last time was only a fluke, a mistake. And he'll make sure it doesn't happen again, taking Vicodin before they can sleep together. But before that, he needs to notify Wilson of what he wants tonight.

And so he does that, heading for his phone and calling Wilson.

It rings for several seconds, and he almost gives up-- maybe Wilson is out. Maybe Wilson is doing something other than moping around his new apartment and missing the ex-wife of the day and trying to deal with his so-called gay guilt he's starting to question if it even really exists. Of course, it could, and it can, but it doesn't seem to make sense. Wilson's too eager to sleep with him to be really having gay guilt.

"House?"

"The very same," he replies, biting his lip. "You should come over. I'm sober and bored, and unless you're doing anything other than moping, you've got no excuses to not come."

"I am in my apartment," Wilson grants him, "and I am alone in it. But House..." He trails off.

"But what? Come over!"

"House...," Wilson draws in a breath, "I know."

"Don't take my position of the cryptic one now," he says, rolling his eyes.

"I finally realized the last time," he continues. "I'm good at reading people, you know this—” House's heart drops into the pit of his stomach. "And I don't feel the same."

"Wilson—” he starts, trying to find worthwhile words, words that make sense as his head spins and spins. He doesn't know what to say, how to lie about this, of all things.

But he can hear Wilson's sad, defeated smile when he says, "You can't keep doing this to yourself, House." He can't keep having sex with his love, is what Wilson is saying. Because that love is— 

And Wilson hangs up before he can keep going in his mind.

House stares at his phone for several minutes, tempted to call Wilson again and yell and beg for an explanation, do something irrational and stupid, but he knows Wilson wouldn't even pick up the phone. 

Of course, Wilson had put the pieces together— of course House was obvious about it in his eyes. His whole body aches and his leg feels like it's on fire. He doesn't know what to do now— what is he supposed to do now?

He doesn't have any answers, so he straightens up and goes for his liquor cabinet, taking out a bottle of whiskey.

**Author's Note:**

> yell at me on my tumblr, [autisticgreghouse](https://autisticgreghouse.tumblr.com)


End file.
